


Breathe Me In

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Established Relationship, KNBxNBA, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 04:23:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9862427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Ryouta talks enough for the both of them, but neither of them minds. Ryouta likes having the space to speak, and Shuuzou enjoys listening to the rise and fall of his voice, the tone of his words, the patterns of his sentences.(KNBxNBA verse)





	

Shuuzou makes the drive up to the Bay Area a couple of times a year, mostly unplanned. It’s when he really misses Ryouta or Ryouta really misses him and they’re still weeks out from the next time the Warriors come down to LA and Shuuzou can call in enough favors at the garage to get his coworkers to cover for him. Sometimes they do plan it, though; Shuuzou’s younger siblings have a long weekend and Ryouta’s on a homestand and Shuuzou might as well give his parents some alone time and drag the kids up to see some more of the world.

They fight over who gets the front seat and who gets to hold the snacks and Shuuzou’s about to tell them that if they want to be treated like they’re older than seven and five they’d better act like it, but they know when to give it a rest. It’s still dark out by the time they’ve both fallen back asleep, Shuuzou’s sister in the front seat and his brother sprawled out in back. Already, the anticipation is crawling under Shuuzou’s skin from three weeks (not even that long) without Ryouta, only his wavy image on the television screen and the chirping of his voice on the messages he leaves on Shuuzou’s phone while he’s at work (and the twenty million emojis he finds time to text Shuuzou when he’s supposed to be at practice or something).

They’re in San Francisco by lunchtime; the kids are whining about how hungry they are (when they aren’t sending selfies to their friends) and Shuuzou’s in the middle of a nightmare parking situation but finally he finds an open space and backs in, narrowly missing the curb but still getting them in.

He'd texted Ryouta his general location; Ryouta’s there already, waving and grinning at them all. Shuuzou leans up against him, not even really hugging him because damn, he’s tired. The kids are already demanding to know where they’re going to eat and Ryouta’s pretending to take offense at their insults to his cooking (which are all a hundred percent deserved.”

“Where to, Shuuzou?” says Ryouta, throwing an arm around his waist.

Shuuzou just looks up at him (and there’s still, no matter how good it looks, something off about having to look up into Kise Ryouta’s face). He hasn’t been paying enough attention to even know if Ryouta had given them any options.

“Can we drop off our stuff first?”

“Sure,” says Ryouta, just as the kids start to whine again.

“He’s just going to fall asleep,” says his brother.

“Go out without me,” says Shuuzou.

They certainly don’t need him falling asleep in his chair.

“You sure?” says Ryouta, taking Shuuzou’s bag from his shoulder.

“I’m positive,” says Shuuzou.

When he wakes up, the kids are watching a TV show they’re definitely not allowed to while Ryouta’s doing something on his phone. And, well, this is a vacation; they’re smart enough not to tell their parents and while the show is a little more mature than what Shuuzou would prefer them to watch, it’s not like he wasn’t watching worse at their age (and it’s not like they probably don’t watch worse when they can get away with it).

Shuuzou sinks onto the couch beside Ryouta (god, this thing is plush; Ryouta’s interior design team absolutely did not skimp out).

“You’re up,” says Ryouta, tugging Shuuzou closer and pressing a kiss to the side of his neck.

He smells like fruity shampoo and that musky cologne some famous designer named after him when he won his first scoring title (at the time, Shuuzou hadn’t found it fitting at all, but now it seems to have settled into him just fine).

“You’re coming to dinner, right?”

“Course,” says Shuuzou. “But I’ll cook tomorrow.”

Ryouta’s got a game tomorrow night, which means early dinner and then something after the game when the kids are asleep and the two of them should be, but they’ll make up a little the time they’d spent separated by paint and folding chairs by staring at the stove together. Shuuzou yawns; he’s still pretty fucking beat and dinner or no, he’d really rather fall asleep on top of Ryouta right now. So he closes his eyes and tunes out the rapid English on the TV and breathes in Ryouta.

* * *

Ryouta always brings flowers when he comes to see Shuuzou’s father, and it’s never the same kind. Lilies, roses, petunias, daisies, marigolds—they’ve all brightened the washed-out walls of the hospital room and seeing them always puts a smile on Shuuzou’s father’s face and pressure on Shuuzou’s insides (and he always holds Ryouta’s hand a little bit tighter). Ryouta regales Shuuzou’s father with tales of life on the road, dumb things the rookies do (Shuuzou would bet on Ryouta taking part in half of those himself, and he’s pretty sure he could dig up the social media posts to prove it) and things the two of them have done together. They seem mundane when Shuuzou thinks about them, even though they feel good at the time, but Ryouta has a way of talking about them that brings back some of those good feelings and leaves Shuuzou wanting to do it all over again even if it’s just another day trip to the beach.

Sometimes they take the kids and build sandcastles; the kids are old enough to claim that that’s for babies but not too old to help Shuuzou and Ryouta out as they build up crumbing turrets washed away all too soon by the tide. Most of the time it’s just the two of them under an umbrella, Shuuzou daydreaming and Ryouta reading a magazine or some kind of skincare book until they fall asleep.

Shuuzou always buys them ice cream on the way back, ignoring Ryouta’s protests about his diet and buying him a cone of mint chip. Ryouta’s not going to let ice cream drip all over his hand so he eats it anyway, and sometimes he even thanks Shuuzou for buying. He takes a lick of Shuuzou’s cone, too (greedy brat) and smiles so brightly that Shuuzou almost forgets he’s done it. On the way back, Ryouta sings along pitch-perfect to the car radio and Shuuzou takes the scenic route.Ryouta’s so damn pretty it’s hard to believe that Shuuzou had had it so bad for him back in middle school, when he’d still had fat on his cheeks and despite all his grace and athleticism still moved a little bit awkwardly the way all kids who grow too fast do. Because that’s nothing compared to what Ryouta is now, fully-formed and gorgeous, graceful and sleek. It’s amazing he doesn’t get recognized more when they’re out together in his neighborhood, but then again some of these silicon valley types might not recognize a basketball if someone threw it at their heads.

It gets chilly in the winter where Ryouta is, and Shuuzou steals his hoodies to wear onto the patio when he eats an early breakfast and waits for the smell of hot food and coffee to bring Ryouta into a waking state. He comes out in pajamas and socks, skincare routine only half-finished but still drop-dead gorgeous. Ryouta talks enough for the both of them, but neither of them minds. Ryouta likes having the space to speak, and Shuuzou enjoys listening to the rise and fall of his voice, the tone of his words, the patterns of his sentences.

* * *

There’s nothing like going one-on-one against him, the smacking of two pairs of well-worn sneakers against the asphalt, Ryouta syncing up with Shuuzou’s breath and every motion. It’s like facing himself, but bigger and stronger and capable of going a thousand different directions—but it’s more fun for both of them if they stay within this box, a challenge for Ryouta to limit himself and still come out on top, an easy way for Shuuzou to exploit his own flaws and watch what Ryouta does to counter them.

Ryouta never tells him that he could have, should have been pro, that he could have done things differently. He’s just excited for a one-on-one every time, for another chance to go out on the court with Shuuzou. And Shuuzou knows he can’t hold a candle to the actual NBA players Ryouta gets paid to go up against, but if Ryouta wants to play against him anyway he’ll take that at face value. Ryouta’s never given him any reason not to.

* * *

“It’s hot.”

Ryouta drags out the syllable until his voice frays out, burying his face in the couch cushion. Shuuzou has very little sympathy, especially because he’s about to get up and turn on the air conditioner anyway.

“Go home if you can’t take it,” he says.

Ryouta sighs dramatically and practically pounces on Shuuzou when he sits back down. Shuuzou would ask him what that was about being hot, but Ryouta’s pouting and blinking up into his face and years of being photographed have given him some kind of instinct for putting himself into perfect lighting. Shuuzou exhales.

“I want to be with you, Shuuzou,” says Ryouta.

It’s said all breathlessly like a ploy for attention and focus, but beneath that layer is absolute sincerity.

“Quit complaining, then,” says Shuuzou.

He kisses the tip of Ryouta’s nose; the air conditioner is hitting them full-blast and Shuuzou can feel the sweat drying on his skin. He hauls Ryouta in closer and Ryouta sighs again, softer and lighter into Shuuzou’s collarbone.

**Author's Note:**

> i like to think that niji keeps kise honest in some ways....and that kise is a lot more straightforward about basketball than anything else


End file.
